


Three-Hand Rummy (Or: Definitely Not According to Hoyle)

by Kathar



Series: This Can Only End Poorly [2]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel 616, Secret Avengers, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hover-cars, Language, M/M, Memory Alteration, Okay just the one movie, Past Clint Barton/Bobbi Morse, Past Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Secret Relationship, This can only end poorly, references to 80s movies starting Jessica Tandy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 12:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“If you want to get back to work answer my questions.  What the hell were you doing in Clint Barton’s apartment the other night?”</i><br/>“Playing cribbage.”<br/>“What part of cribbage involves his tongue down your throat and your hand in his pants?”</p><p> The Black Widow has some issues with the way Hawkeye and Agent Coulson play cribbage, and she wants answers-- now.  Unfortunately, they’re currently playing hide and seek with an entire base of AIM lackeys and they’ve misplaced the get-away vehicle.  She’s just going to have to multi-task.</p><p>While this is part of a series, it’s designed to be read entirely as a stand-alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three-Hand Rummy (Or: Definitely Not According to Hoyle)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Secret Avengers story, but the least you need to know that’s not explained in the text is: yes, Clint, Natasha and Bobbi did actually agree to be injected with memory-altering nanites so that SHIELD could wipe their memories of classified material during and after covert ops. "Classified material" includes all knowledge of the fact that they're even on a covert ops team. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Currently, many of their ops are directed at AIM.
> 
> Trigger warnings: As always, Secret Avengers means memory alteration issues. All characters are attempting to play nice, but there are additional non-specific allusions to other past traumatic memory alteration events. Also: Language (geez, Coulson).

“Black Widow, I believe the enemy is _that_ way.”

“That’s what I’m attempting to determine, Agent Coulson.  Explain yourself.”  Natasha Romanov, the Black Widow, increased the pressure of her forearm on his throat briefly to underline her point.  Unless something went very wrong and one of the others got spotted, she had him to herself for the moment.  It was a brief window, and she wasn’t sure whether or when she was likely to get it again.  Coulson wisely did not attempt to move, except a little gulp that bumped his adam’s apple against her arm.  

“I’m attempting to provide cover and maintain an open line of retreat in case we have to pull out quickly.” he said, holding her eyes with his own.

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

“If you would like either a curriculum vitae or a psychological profile, I’d prefer to wait until after the mission.  If it’s all the same to you.”  She had to hand it to the man-- up against a wall in a back alley, pinned by a Red-Room trained assassin who’d been alive longer than his grandparents, and he went with _disapproving librarian_.  He would probably do _politely regretful_ in front of a firing squad.  He wasn’t hiding that he was anxious about other matters, however.  He glanced past her shoulder frequently, trying to get his eyes back on the end of the alleyway and the building beyond it, which housed their targets and their teammates.  It didn’t worry her so much; it was Hawkeye and Mockingbird out there and their misadventures tended to force themselves on one’s attention.  She was going to use Coulson’s dis-ease for all it was worth.

“If you want to get back to work answer my questions.   _What the hell were you doing in Clint Barton’s apartment the other night?_ ”

“Playing cribbage.”

“What part of cribbage involves his tongue down your throat and your hand in his pants?”

“He was trying to convince me not to take muggins on a missed pair of jacks.  And please humor my probably hopeless desire for mission protocol and call him Hawkeye while we’re in the field.”

“It’s protocol now to take advantage of your asset by fucking him outside of mission time?  How does that even--”

“Goddamnit, Coulson, how hard is it to get a little cover when a guy asks for it?” Hawkeye’s voice was remarkably even given how fast he was rounding the corner, and the fact that he was looking behind him and firing an arrow as he did so.  He stopped when he saw them, and had just time to widen his eyes before the the explosion caused by his arrow knocked them all over and sent bricks, shrapnel, dirt, and an robot head or two flying in all directions.  Yes, indeed, as obvious as ever.

“What the fuck were you doing?” Hawkeye gasped as he got up from the ground.  He didn’t stop moving as he asked, but he did, she noticed, scoop Coulson up by the elbow and drag him along as he got his feet under him.  He was keeping himself between them.

“I think I was being asked if my intentions towards you are honorable.” Agent Coulson said, straightening his collar and tie, his voice as casual as if he had not been shoved up against a wall in a dark alley by a teammate moments before.  He’d already pulled his gun from its holster, and was looking back the way they’d come.  

“The actual fuck, Nat?  That was more important than covering my ass?   _Couldn’t we do this later?_ ”  

“The day you can’t take care of yourself against low-level AIM security is the day we put you out to pasture. You’ve just survived ops in Barbuda itself, after all. This is more worrisome.  And no, we can’t do it later, because neither you nor I will _remember_ this conversation later, Clint.”  But it was going to have to be later, because the low-level AIM security had come pouring around the corner in a sea of baggy yellow, and they’d brought several mantis-like hovering armored things with them.  

“Um, we have a problem,” Agent Coulson’s voice brought her head around.  “We seem to have misplaced the car.”

 

___________________

“Phil?”

“Yeah?”

There was a brief pause.

“ _Phil...._ ”

“Yeah?”

Another pause-- naturally, given what seemed to be the choice of activity.

“Mmrrph. _Phil_. Fuck.  I’m pretty sure that’s not how you peg out.”  The light was low, and the angle from the doorway was obstructed enough that Natasha couldn’t see everything that was happening on the couch.

“Is that what you want me to do?” the unfamiliar voice answered Clint, laughter in it even though it was low and breathless.  An arm de-tangled itself from... oh, that’s what they were doing... and reached over to manipulate something on the coffee table briefly.  Clint cursed, his voice ragged in a fashion that she’d once known too well.  “That’s _not_ what you wanted me to do?  How about this?  Is this better?”

“Getting... getting warmer....”  

“I can come back later,” Natasha said, because it was clearly talk now or back away very quickly, and she wasn’t especially inclined to wait.  

“Nat?” Clint sat back so fast he could have been spring-loaded.  He swung to stare at her in horror.  Underneath him, the other man tugged himself upright and let his hand drop casually to the side of the couch cushion.  Clint would be keeping at least a knife down there, if not a gun.  “Nat, haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”

“I did knock, Clint.  I also texted and called your landline.  You didn’t answer.  Your locks need to be better, and you’re going to need to re-set the tripwire.  I take it I can come in?”  She wasn’t really waiting for permission.  It gave her a little resigned amusement to see Clint hastily button his jeans and tug his t-shirt back down over them.  After a quick swipe, he clearly gave his hair up as hopeless.  The tentative, rueful smile he gave her had brought down women nearly as strong as herself.  

The other man smoothed his button-down back into place, discreetly re-buttoning a few buttons as he went and tucking it back into his waistband.  He evidently felt his hair wasn’t worth bothering with-- there was little enough of it.  Natasha turned on a light as she came, and realized that his face was in fact somewhat familiar.  Long and open, eyes made for laughter, very distinct jawline-- not bad. She couldn’t place the man, but she was damn sure he wasn’t a civilian. If she had to guess, she’d guess spook. Oh, Clint.  Way to focus on the details and miss the substance.

“We were a little distracted,” Clint told her.  

“I can see that.  I was worried you were a little incapacitated.  Recent events considered, I don’t think this was an irrational worry.”

‘Well, now you can see I wasn’t.” His seatmate raised an eyebrow at that, and Clint blushed.  “Wasn’t _much_.”  That got him an elbow and a whisper.

“Oh. Nat, do you remember Phil Coulson?  He’s the one who called us all in on that Leviathan thing with Fury’s son a while back.”  His face slid neatly into place then, give or take about ten pounds of muscle that had clearly melted off of him since.  He’d been some kind of military at the time; he must have gotten stuck at least halfway behind a desk somewhere since then.  At least he hadn’t gone soft about the edges.

“Hello, Mr. Coulson,” she said wryly, as she slid onto one of the barstools at Clint’s breakfast bar.  

“Under the circumstances, Ms. Romanov, I think you can call me Phil. It’s good to meet you under less confused conditions.  I’m a great admirer of your work.”  She tilted her head at him.

“I’m glad to hear you’re familiar with it.  It would be wise to keep it in mind. Clint, we need to talk.” She looked pointedly at Phil Coulson.  Clint put a hand down over his on the couch.

“Okay, so: talk.”  

“Alone.”  

Oh, Phil Coulson had the poker face of a saint.  It was a work of art.  Clint really didn’t do stoic, and so it was intriguing that his face remained set as he said:

“Then you’re going to need to wait until tomorrow.”  She almost wanted to applaud him.  He was more assured than she’d seen him outside of costume in ages, certainly since matters with the tracksuit mafia had come to a crisis.  Instead, she shook her head.

“I’m not sure it can wait, Clint.”

“Coulson’s a SHIELD agent; he can keep a secret.”  Spook.  Called it.  Damnation.  

“It’s not a matter of secrets.” She looked between the two.

“Then we can do lunch tomorrow.  Sushi or something you like.  I’ll even wear non-jeans.”  

“We haven’t really eaten yet, Ms. Romanov.  Why don’t I go pick up some take-out for the three of us while you and Clint chat?”  Phil broke into their staring match.  “Will Thai do?”

“Thai will do very well,” Natasha told him, and watched as he kissed Clint lightly, brushing the back of his hand down one arm as he crossed to the door.  He gave Natasha a brief salute.  She waited until the door clicked behind her.

“Clinton Francis Barton,” she hissed at him, “ _do you never learn?_ ”

 

______________________________

 

“You didn’t leave the GPS on the dash again, did you, Agent?  You know that’s just asking for a jacking.”  Hawkeye’s voice was light enough, but he was clearly looking for cover. There were noises at end of the alley now; a second squad must be arriving.

“Of course not.  I may have left a laptop bag on the back seat, however.  That damn car should shock anyone whose biometrics don’t match SHIELD’s access database.”  Agent Coulson ran a hand over his high forehead and rubbed for a second.  “Then again, this is AIM we’re talking about. That should be child’s play for them, and SHIELD’s hover car security is not exactly perfect.”  He blushed.  Just the tips of his ears, but he _blushed_.  So did Hawkeye.  That was... disturbing.

After quickly discarding several responses that included lines like _please tell me you washed the upholstery afterwards_ , she settled on:

“Could we not just blow up the alley with them in it and secure more time to retreat?”

“Regretfully not-- Mockingbird’s still out there, and with her camotech?  She could easily be disguised as one of them.” She didn’t look directly at Hawkeye, not wanting to see if he was considering responses like _and this is a problem how?_ But evidently discretion was contagious, because he merely shrugged.

“Got one of my smoke arrows.  Let’s get going-- where’s the backup extraction point?”  He was shooting as he was talking. A tangle of yellow figures had rounded the corner. The arrow detonated into a roiling cloud of smoke in their midst-- curses and thuds emanated from it.

“Top of an empty warehouse on the other end of the compound.  I’m afraid we’re going to run into more fire on the way there.  At least there are no civilians to contend with.  I’ll try and get a message to Mockingbird.”  Agent Coulson looked over.  “If you could unblock whatever you did to my comms please, Widow.”

“Of course, Agent Coulson.” She did so, and he began muttering under his breath as they ran down a temporarily deserted street.

After that, for several blocks it was bruised knuckles, several clips in the handguns, a judicious application of the widow’s bite, another smoke arrow and a magnesium flash one plus the usuals, and an impressive performance by Agent Coulson against one of the mantises, using only an empty garbage can. As they were climbing a fire escape a couple AIM squads later, she chose her moment.

“I can believe it of Clint-- _Hawkeye_ \-- but I had not thought you were so very careless with your assets or yourself, Agent Coulson.”

“Nat!  NOT. NOW.”

“First of all: you hardly know me, Widow. Second: you definitely don’t know us.”  That was the end of the matter as far as Agent Coulson was concerned.  The top of the warehouse attained, he strode quickly to the far end of the roof, gravel crunching in double-quick time.  He still carried the garbage can lid, flapping it idly at his hip while he searched the skies.  Helicopter, quinjet, helicarrier-- hell, _weather balloon_ \-- anything would have been welcome, but she thought he was doomed to disappointment.  Hawkeye, coming quickly up the ladder behind him, split off to search the streets below for signs of their missing agent and/or their missing escape vehicle.  She followed him.

“Clint,” she said, and it was obvious even behind his glasses that he was glaring at her.

“We’re kind of under attack here, Nat.”

“So multi-task.  This can’t wait.”

“We went through this before, Nat, and I thought you were fine with it.  You said you were fine with it. What happened?”

“I’m not under memory wipe right now is what happened, Clint! Tell me there is any possible way this can _not_ end badly.”

 

_______________________________________

“I don’t know, it’s only barely started! I gotta tell you, it feels pretty damn good right now, and I’m in a mood for that.  Jeez, Nat, what is this? I can’t make my own romantic decisions anymore?”

Clint hadn’t been in a mood to beat around the bush, and neither had Natasha.  Phil Coulson had barely closed the door before she’d gotten to the point. The initial sinking feeling that had come when Clint hadn’t answered her calls and texts-- _he’s gone and gotten himself in trouble again_ \-- had only transmuted itself into that _other_ sinking feeling. _He’s gone and gotten himself in_ trouble _again_.

“Clint. After the disaster with that Wright woman, how badly you handled things with Jess, and given how recently you signed the papers with Bobbi, you shouldn’t be making romantic decisions at all right now. That is my point.”  Her hands were on her hips and she was resisting shaking her finger at him with an effort. When had her life come to this: scolding Clint Barton like a poorly-trained puppy?

He was doing that Clint thing that he did when he was resenting a conversation, the thing she could not quite define as a glower but that sharpened all his already-handsome features.  She’d never admit it out loud, but it used to make it very hard for her to disengage when she was making him angry.  It was certainly better than the pout that she hated but had expected.

“I get what you’re saying, Nat. And I’m telling you this one is different.”

“He has a penis, certainly.”  

“No, does he? I hadn’t noticed. If you think that’s actually new for me, you haven’t been paying attention. And don’t play that ‘Barton, I don’t pay attention to your love life’ card on me, because: You. Me. This conversation we’re having.”

“I only pay attention to your love life when circumstances force me to, Clint.  Please, let me list the things about him that do not surprise me: spy, sarcastic, deadly, smarter than you are.  Here are things I don’t know but can guess: you two aren’t good at talking about relationships, and he pursued you. The only box he doesn’t check is ‘teammate.’”

“That’s... it’s not....”

“Hah.” There was no satisfaction in her voice. “Let me guess; he found you, he traded little witty quips with you, he flattered you, and in the end all you had to do was say yes. You just fell into it, like always.”

“Except that I said ‘no,’ Nat.” Clint’s voice was directed at the carpet and so soft she could hardly hear it.  After a moment, he raised his head and sighed.  “I brushed him off four times-- give or take. When he asked me outright, I said ‘no’. All that shit you said? I knew that. I know that. I’m not fit for a relationship and I said ‘no.’”

“And then, evidently, you said yes. Why?”  Clint glanced over at the beer bottles lining the coffee table.

“I... it... he made a shot when it counted. And he laid himself out for me, it was painful how much he did, and when I said ‘no,’ he said ‘okay’ and went away and didn’t ask again.” He shrugged. “So when I ran into him again? I told him yes. And you know another thing? Yes he’s sarcastic, and he probably is smarter than me but he never makes me feel that. And yeah, you have no idea how much he sucks at talking about feelings, but he _tries anyway_ and he does it so damn carefully it’s fucking cute. And yeah, he’s a spook and he’s a badass who tries to hide it under a suit, and that’s sexy as hell. I’ll own it.”

“Clint...” Natasha stepped forward to lay a hand on his crossed arms. “Clint, I’m not saying he’s an enemy or that he’s taking advantage of you; I’m just saying that your timing is horrible. You’re not ready for this.”

“But _it came now_ , Nat. He came now, and maybe he’d wait or maybe he wouldn’t; I didn’t stop to ask. He’s here now, and I will fucking do my best to _get_ ready for him.”

“I can’t decide whether I’m proud of you or terrified for you, Clint.” He tilted a little tiny smile at her and unwrapped his arms, settling them at her hips.

“Just be on my side, Nat. Just help me. I’m terrified myself, but I’m gonna keep doing it. C’mon. I’ve had a bad time lately, a really bad time, and this is a good thing. He makes me feel like I matter. I’m not afraid I’ll break him.” He put his forehead to hers and stared into her eyes. And batted his goddamn lashes at her. She was Natasha Romanov-- she never giggled. She did not do so now, but she let her expression soften a bit.

And Phil Coulson walked back into the apartment, laden with plastic bags, and saw them both.

“We were just talking about you,” Clint told him. “I think I’ve got her on the mat.”

“Ah?” His eyes flicked to her, waiting. Lucky, who had come out of hiding at the scent of food, sniffed around the bottom of the bags.

“If you hurt him, you had best hope you never meet me again,” she informed him, “I still think it’s a poor idea. But, as you’re here, you had best take care of him.”

“That’s what you interrupted when you showed up, Nat.” Clint grumbled.  And Phil Coulson, of the marvelously bland face? He ducked his head and _chuckled_. She gave up for the moment.

“Bring me a pair of chopsticks, and deal me in for whatever you are playing.”

“Guest’s choice, Ms. Romanov. Three-hand rummy?  Or if you don’t feel like sitting in the box, how about hearts?”

 

_______________________________________

 

“I can’t raise Mockingbird, and I’m not getting much from Hill.” Agent Coulson spun his makeshift shield slowly in his hands as he walked over to them. “The only thing I _can_ get her to commit to is keeping the Icarus waiting for if-- _when_ \-- we can make it back to the original rendezvous point.”

“And now we’re on the roof of a building, with limited options.”

“And now we are on the roof of a building, with limited options, limited ammunition, and still missing one team member. Hawkeye, have we been spotted?”

“Not... yet, but there’s movement in the next street, and I can see some of those little round hover drones. We’re going to have company soon. Hey, do those things remind you guys of _Batteries Not Included_ , too?” He turned back to them.

“We are discussing movies now?”

“Better than discussing our love life.”

“Widow, Hawkeye, please duck,” Agent Coulson said calmly, and promptly sent his makeshift shield careening over their heads. The drone it hit went bouncing along the gravel, scattering bits of itself. He followed in its wake and poked at it. “I could see the resemblance, if you imagined oversized Fix-its made for remote surveillance, weaponized, and with-- woah!-- retractable arms.  No, come here, you damned thing-- you wanted to shake hands.” He braced his feet against the body of the thing, ripped out the telescoping arm it had shot out, and gave it another kick. It finally died.

“Holy fuck, those things are sneaky. Let me guess: it was transmitting?” Hawkeye asked him. “We’re gonna get little psycho Fix-it babies visiting?”

“I am nearly certain it was.” He retrieved his shield and poked at the thing with its sundered arm. “Let me take a closer look. You two go back to... whatever you have to do.” He sighed.

“Any way up on the south side?” she asked Hawkeye as she checked the fire escape on the west wall.

“Not for humans.  Access hatch on this side appears to be pretty securely bolted on both sides; grab the body of that drone and we’ll weight it down. You’re weirded out by the memory implants, aren’t you?”

“I have other concerns, not least of all a repeat of the teammate theme and the possibility you were influenced by close proximity to Bobbi. But those, those are _nothing_ compared to the fact that half the time, you don’t remember what you do with him the other half of the time. Clint. _Clint._ ”

She stopped to even out her breathing, cradling the mangled half-dome of the drone to her chest.  She needed to push down the memory of the visceral wave of revulsion for her own blood that had hit when Agent Coulson had originally told them he’d injected them with nanites without their knowledge. _All the better to steal your memories with, my dear._ (Well, he hadn’t said it like that, of course.)

It had taken her until after the Gate op to stop wanting-- secretly-- to back away when he was near. Her rational self admitted he’d never tried anything like it again.  Hell, he’d apologized to her in a quiet moment on the way back from Bagalia. _It wasn’t my call, but I still regret the necessity._ It didn’t help. His unassuming badassery in pursuit of their mission objectives hadn’t moved her. The quiet thoroughness with which he handled logistics and skull-faced mercenaries alike had impressed but not quieted her.

Coulson was impossible to ruffle even when they’d crammed both Mockingbird and an unconscious Taskmaster into a badly-listing hovercar with himself, herself, Hawkeye and Agent Fury.  The Helicarrier had been late that time, too. He’d gotten the badly overloaded car across the border out of Bagalia at about 45 miles an hour and puttering along about five feet above the road’s surface, as serene as if he were out for a Sunday drive. Her stomach had still roiled at the sight of him.

Something about his open, foolish face lost in the middle of the ridiculous parka he’d worn on the Gate op had cracked her, or perhaps sheer proximity had reduced the sensitivity of her triggers. By the time she saw him again after the shitstorm on Barbuda, she found she’d gotten to tolerate his presence. Hell, in Clint’s apartment, she’d actually _liked_ the man, though she’d wanted not to. Apparently she couldn’t trust her subconscious to warn her.  She swallowed and continued.

“Clint, look at me, please. Look at me, and remember the Red Room and what they did to me; what they made me do. So many times after I thought I was safe, the conditioning would come back. So many memories that aren’t mine. So many of my memories that aren’t there.... There’s something important missing from me, Clint. I know there is and I don’t want to be missing it. It’s like knowing you have a phantom limb but not knowing which one is actually gone.

“How can you think this is a foundation for a relationship? How-- _stop hugging me, I think I see something._ ” She pointed down at the southwest corner. Hawkeye obediently dropped her and looked where she pointed.

“Uh. Huh.” He nocked an arrow, held it loose for the moment, still looking. “Nat, it bothers me a lot, all right? It bothers Phil, too. I hate that half the time I can’t remember the first time I kissed him. I hate that I won’t be able to remember _that_ back there-- him being all sexy badass secret agent while holding a goddamn garbage can lid like he’s playing Captain America-- when I’m at home and lonely and... oh, did you not want me to continue?” he broke off when she punched him. “I get to remember it half the time, though.”

“But can you trust him, Clint? If he did something you didn’t like, he could just wipe your memory of that incident. Couldn’t he?”

“Not without Hill’s say so, I-- I don’t _think_. The worst he could do on his own is dump me into the cover story loop. Maybe. But I trust him because he’s been so fucking careful about it all so far.”

“Careful? Careful is not propositioning an asset whose memory of you only exists half the time.”

“What makes you think _I_ propositioned _him_?” Agent Coulson’s voice was very dry. He was doing a slow circuit of the roof, and as he passed them he ran the severed robot hand innocently along the back of Hawkeye’s waist. Hawkeye shivered and laughed, not quite meeting her eyes.

“Yeah, uh, that’s one of those things I don’t remember half the time, Nat. This is _definitely_ on me.”

“Oh, _Barton_. When and why was this?”

“I started thinking about it on the way south from the Gate op, when Bobbi was being such a-- no. I started thinking about it sometime after I found out he made those scones himself, but I decided to _do_ something after the Gate op. Then we got diverted to Barbuda and I had to wait until we got that locked away. I finally got a chance when we started drawing some of this mop-up shit.  You remember the one where we’d set up in that abandoned rathskeller? You and Baby Fury were making an exchange with--”

“Yes, I remember that. I still think I smell that awful stench sometimes.”

“Remember Coulson and I finished our side of the op early and made it back to the base before you, with some time to kill?”

“So, while Agent Fury and I were wading hip-deep through sewage, you were--”

“Yep.” He didn’t look the least bit sorry. “You think we’re ever going to get action here, or should I go down and try to stir something up?”

“I don’t think we’ll need to in a minute. You let frustration with Bobbi drive you into this?”

“Nah. I mean, Bobbi trolled me hard for a bit, but I think it just made me realize how good Phil makes me feel. Yeah, so the timing sucks, on top of everything else. But I’ll take him with terrible timing and all the secrecy and forgetting how his scones taste and the rest of this shit over the alternative.”

“The alternative?”

“Not having him. Watching him from a distance and maybe never getting to be with him, ever. Spending half the time knowing he _exists_ butnot with me, and the other half the time not realizing I have a missing limb myself. I don’t want to end up like-- ah, here we go.” Hawkeye was still staring at the silent south-west corner, but he stood, drew, aimed, shot an arrow back over his shoulder even as he did.

Another not-a-Fix-it drone fell to the rooftop, rolling onto its domed top and sizzling where the arrow had shorted its electronics. A moment later, the air was filled with them, and with arrows and bullets.  She found herself with her back to both Coulson and Hawkeye, alternately shooting and shocking the damn things. Half the time, Hawkeye didn’t bother with an arrow, he just smacked them with his bow. Coulson was using the severed robot arm like a police baton.  Whack. Whack.

Whackwhackwhackwhack-- “ _Shit._ Mockingbird? What’s your twenty? Mockingbird?”

“What’d she say?” Hawkeye asked, as he loosed an arrow that sent one robot careening back into another, and blew them both up.

“She’s down there somewhere. Coming from the Northwest, I think, but she sounds like she’s indoors now. Said something about a surprise?”  

“She would. Nat-- Widow-- guard his back.”  Hawkeye didn’t wait for either of them to recover, he just sprinted past two of the few remaining hover bots, and threw himself off the roof.

___________

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Coulson spat, “What the everloving fuck does that fucking asshole think he’s fucking doing? Shit.”  She stared at him, eyebrows raised.  Well, then. Not a perfect poker face after all. After a brief pause in appreciation, she pointed at the lip of the building, where the claws of a grappling hook had appeared.

“Ah, I see this is your first time, then. You grow used to it after a while.” She dispatched one of the two last drones with a casual dart of her widow’s bite.  Coulson took down the other with a bullet to its soft underbelly, and crossed to check down the side of the building near the grappling hook.  

“I see broken glass. He must have gone in a window; what’s he doing?”

“Finding Mockingbird, I think. We should... yes.  I think we would be wise to work on opening that access hatch.” Coulson turned where she was pointing.

“I’ll do it; I’m nearly out of ammo. Cover me.”

“For now.” He twitched.

“Do us one favor for Clint’s sake, if not mine,” he said, and if his voice was a little strained, he _was_ attempting to wrench open an access hatch that looked like it had rusted over in the Nixon era. “If you decide you have to take this to Hill, give him fair warning.”

“I dislike interfering, Agent Coulson, and I especially dislike tattling on teammates. If I decide something must be done, I will do it myself. Are we clear?”

“We’re clear.” He turned to look at her, gaze steady again. As he turned back to the hatch, she asked

“You understand this is going to end poorly, right?”

“It’s highly likely,” he said on a sigh.

“So why did _you_ say yes?”

“It’s _Clint._ What else was I going to say?” The hatch burst open from within, and a boxy yellow figure popped out and slumped over, like a particularly sad jack-in-the-box.  Hawkeye followed it, shoving it fully out by the knees.  Coulson took its shoulders and pulled it away from the hatch. When Hawkeye was fully out, he slammed the hatch back down, and began to pull drone parts back on it.

“Mockingbird, yes?” she asked him, and he nodded shortly. “How can you tell?”

“Camotech’s great from a distance. Grope it, and it just feels really wrong. And I’m gonna hear shit for that one. Wanna know what the surprise is?”

“Is it explosive?”

“Yep. While were were busy fending off drones, someone snuck in and set this place to blow. She appears to have taken most of the team that did it out, but I don’t know how the charges are set. Timer, remote, or what. And wire-cutting duty is not what you want me on.” _We’re pretty much screwed_ , he did not say, because it would have been redundant.

“Have you still got a grappling arrow, or did you use the last one with the stunt a few minutes ago?” Coulson’s voice was rough.  His expression had been smoothed out a little unevenly, she thought. “And is the rooftop over there close enough to reach?”

“Still got one, yeah. It’s close enough. Line won’t hold all our weight at once; we’ll need to go one at a time.  Have to hook something up for Mockingbird.”

“Don’.. don’t... need help, thank you.” Mockingbird stirred, raising a hand to her bucketed head and groaning. She paused, then continued as she keyed off the camotech and the yellow suit sank out of existence, to reveal her own black and white field suit. “Clint, just so we’re clear: I can take care of myself, and do not _ever_ do what you did down there again.”

“Note to self: don’t attempt to identify Bobbi in a sea of other AIM flunkies before choosing one to rescue. Got it.”

“It was the method of identification I objected to--”

“It was an accident, Bobbi--”

“-- and I didn’t need rescuing.”

“Much.” the Black Widow and Agent Coulson said at the same time, and Mockingbird looked over at them in surprise.

“Much,” she echoed, reluctantly. “I’d have had them all myself soon enough. Hopefully soon enough. Fine. Thank you. All right? Have you all heard from Fury?”

“He should be off the base by now, if not already back to Hill,” Coulson said, frowning. “That didn’t happen?”

“He was recognized, and his route got cut off as he was escaping. He ought to be around here somewhere.”

“Here they come again.” Hawkeye said, pointing at a hovering cloud sweeping upwards from the alley opposite them.

“Why are they bothering?” she found herself asking. “We are just about to blow up, anyway.”

“That’s too loud for a drone,” Mockingbird began.

“CHEESE!” The hover car appeared over the north wall as they all turned towards the sound, roof open and long body shining in the afternoon sunlight.  It was piloted by a big bald man, who was grinning in a way that was positively piratical, in combination with his eye patch. Coulson waved back as they made the edge of the building.

“Mockingbird, you get shotgun,” he said, handing her over the edge and into Agent Nick Fury’s waiting hands before she could protest. “Nick, this building’s rigged; get us out fast. Hawkeye, Widow, in.”  He followed them into the backseat, which was rapidly getting crowded.  Fury had the car moving before he was fully situated. They were just outside the blast radius when the warehouse puffed outwards, surprisingly delicate, and then slumped downwards in a cloud of brickwork, smoke, and detritus. The sound it made was much softer than it should have been; more of a sigh than a boom, followed by a prolonged bricky shlump.  On either side of her, Hawkeye and Coulson stared at it as it went, their arms braced against the open edge of the back seat. She turned her head back to the front as they did, to listen to Fury describing how he’d borrowed the hover car temporarily to complete the data grab he’d been in danger of blowing when he was made.  

She realized suddenly that neither Hawkeye nor Coulson had dropped their hands back to their sides.  Eh, there was so little space in the back seat that... against her back, she could swear she felt their fingers brush.  

“What’re we doing after debrief?” Hawkeye asked casually. “It’s a long flight back to New York.”

“I suspect I’ll be living the high life in the infirmary,” Mockingbird said. “Save a beer for me.” She said it like a peace offering, and Hawkeye responded

“If I can find one on that overgrown swamp boat? Always.”

“Hill’s going to keep me long, I can already tell,” Fury said. “Cheese’s usually got a deck of cards on him. Just don’t let him convince you to play cribbage; he’s vicious.” In the back seat, three sets of eyes did not look at each other.

Natasha sighed. Clint side-eyed her inquisitively. She shook her head and arched her back, just a little.  When she sat back, two linked hands were hidden under her hair.

"Cards are all right,” she said, “depending on the game. I don’t want to play rummy tonight. It’s not fun being in the box.”

_End._

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set either slightly before or slightly after _Item: One Archer, Slightly Battered_ , which is a Phil’s-eye view of the relationship (and Clint). This one was initially intended to focus on outside reaction to that relationship. It expanded into Natasha’s own reactions to having memory-altering nanites in her system, and to the recent past events of Winter Soldier where she ended up being compromised, radically memory wiped, and not remembering Bucky when she regained other memories. Unfortunately, I haven’t read a lot of that arc, so I’ve tried to keep it vague but can’t promise I haven’t made mistakes.
> 
> On the timeline, it’s about [mumble] months after Issue #4 of Secret Avengers Vol. 2, which contains the start of the Barbuda raid. I’d also put it at some-conveniently-spaced time after the special hell Clint’s gotten himself into as of Hawkeye Issue #10 is at least temporarily resolved. At some point, if other stories in this series get written, I’ll just stop trying to be canon-compliant. Until then, it’s usually a safe bet that, no matter what happens to AIM’s high council itself in the comic, there will always be more random AIM hideaways to ransack in the name of plot.


End file.
